“None whatsoever. He was murdered,” she answered. There was no doubt in her voice and none in her eyes.
“How can you be so sure?”
“He told me he would meet me this morning. We were working on an appraisal. The piece was Etruscan. I had made some enquiries at the Ashmolean and at the British Museum. I was ready to make my report. He would not have deceived me. He would never have deceived me.”
“This must have been a great shock to you,” Diana said.
“He would never have willingly inflicted this upon me. He was a kind man, an understanding and sensitive man. He knew that I was coming. He would never have wanted me to find him like this.”
“My brother’s death was also presented as a suicide,” Diana said.
“Your brother was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“The London papers merely reported his death. I’m so sorry.”
Diana nodded.
“Have you called the police?” Tom asked.
“No. I am still trying . . . to accept . . . this. I was upstairs when I heard your knock. I thought you were his murderers and had returned for some reason.”
“You should call the police,” Tom said, closing the door to the bathroom.
They went back downstairs; she phoned the local police, explained that she had found his body, and answered three or four questions. The police promised to send someone promptly. She took them into the living room and poured three glasses of whiskey and unchilled soda.
“Tell me about the crime,” she said.
Tom paused for a moment and then asked, “Do you know the horses of Pech-Merle?”
“The Chevaux Ponctués? Of course.”
“They have been stolen.”
“That’s impossible,” she said. “They’re painted on a slab that weighs several tons. How could one remove it? Besides, the cave is visited by hundreds of people every day. Where would you find the opportunity to even try to steal it?”
“The director was told that the cave had green disease. He closed the cave immediately. Heavy equipment was brought in to replace what they thought was a faulty ventilation system. They replaced a piece or two and then used the equipment to remove the stone and put a copy in its place.”
“My God,” she said.
“And Tenedos was represented as the agent.”
“By whom?”
“By a young man with a British accent. He hasn’t been identified as yet,” Tom said.
“Everyone in the world of European art knows Tenedos,” she replied. “Mr. Kepler’s reputation was beyond question. He would have been the person to call. Now that they have murdered him he cannot defend himself.”
“The further implication, of course, would be that he was complicit in the act and took his life out of guilt or remorse,” Tom said.
“Yes, I see,” she said. “Such lies. Such filth.”
“They murdered my brother for the same reason,” Diana said. “I’m certain of it.”
“How was your brother involved in this, Miss Bennett?”
“We believe that he prepared the copy that was substituted for the original paintings.”
“Why would he do such a thing? Your brother was a man of honor, just like Mr. Kepler.”
“We don’t know,” Diana said. “He was probably forced to do it because of some threat.”
There was a knock at the door. Tom could see the man through the drawing room window. He was in plainclothes. A small blue sedan was parked in the driveway. Margaret opened the door and he introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Charles Baker. When he entered the room he acknowledged Tom and Diana but his eyes immediately ran to the shotgun resting on the sideboard.
He asked a series of questions, told all of them to relax and stay where they were while he inspected the body. During the time that he was upstairs alone his team of medical technicians arrived at the door; Margaret directed them to the stairway and told them that the body was in the room at the end of the hall.
They worked for an hour and fifteen minutes before removing the remains of Walter Kepler in a zippered vinyl bag. Baker followed them down the stairs. He removed his rubber gloves, turning them inside out in the process, and slipped them into his right jacket pocket. Margaret invited him to sit down. She offered him a drink of whiskey or tea, both of which he politely declined. He removed a notebook from his inside jacket pocket, took out a fountain pen, and recorded Tom’s and Diana’s names and addresses. Then he turned toward Margaret Harrell.
“May I ask you why you waited so long to call us in, Miss Harrell?”
“Mr. Kepler was my friend as well as my teacher, DCI Baker. We were very close. It has been very difficult for me to recover from the shock of finding him that way.”
“Yes, quite,” he responded. “Not the sort of man you’d expect to find in that state. You did find him just like that?”
“Yes. I didn’t touch him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And you said you spoke with him yesterday.”
“I did. Late yesterday afternoon.”
“You would recognize his voice of course.”
“Yes, I would.”
“And is that your shotgun, Miss Harrell?”
“Of course not. It was Mr. Kepler’s.”
“And was Mr. Kepler a sportsman, Miss Harrell?”
“No, Inspector. The shotgun was a gift to him. He did some work for the Uffizi. The directors were very grateful.”
Baker rose and walked over to the sideboard to inspect the gun. “Do you mind, Miss Harrell?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“It’s not loaded,” he said. “Were you aware of that?”
“No, I wasn’t,” she said.
“It would still make a lovely bludgeon. Good balance,” he said, hefting it and passing it from hand to hand. “Did you notice the bump on the right side of Mr. Kepler’s head?”
“No, I didn’t,” she answered.
Diana looked at Tom, who held his expression.
“Neither did we at first; it was very slight.”
“Do you believe there was a struggle?” Tom asked.
“A struggle? Not much of one, I should think,” Baker answered. “He was murdered, of course. That’s clear.”
“How can you be sure?” Margaret asked.
“Weren’t you sure, Miss Harrell?”
“Yes, I told you I was.”
“And why were you sure, Miss Harrell?”
“Because I knew him; there was no reason for him to take his own life.”
“We believed you. Shouldn’t we have done so?”
“Is that all you have?”
“No, Miss Harrell. There is more. Mr. Kepler was right-handed, was he not?”
“Yes, how did you know that?”
“From the position of his toothbrush and safety razor in the bathroom cupboard. The handles were to the right. One does not reverse the handles when replacing them. Now consider the state of Mr. Kepler’s body. The right wrist was nearly severed, while the cuts on the left wrist were relatively superficial. A right-handed suicide will cut more surely with his right hand. I’m sorry to say this, Miss Harrell; I know of your feelings for Mr. Kepler, but it appears that one of two things probably happened. Either there was a struggle and his assailants were not able to make a clean, deep cut on the left wrist or they began with the right wrist, cut it through, and then added the slices on the left wrist for the purpose of symmetry. This was part of their attempt to persuade us that the wounds were self-inflicted.
“Odd, isn’t it? No one ever says, ‘He cut his wrist.’ Suicides cut their wrists. Or rather, they slash them. But there’s always a pair. It seems more orderly that way, more tidy. Even with one wrist nearly hacked in two and blood splashed here and about, th
ere’s that need for symmetry. Quite fascinating really, don’t you think? There’s also the matter of the bump. It was fresh and recent. Warm-bath suicides seek to relax. They wish to leave this vale in peace, particularly when it’s become a vale of tears. It’s quite interesting really. The violence of the cuts is balanced by the soothing water. They’re familiar with pain and it becomes their road to peace. Back to the amniotic fluid and all that.
“Mr. Kepler’s head was bumped but his body was upright. If he had fallen against the rim of the tub or the sill of the window (or indeed, been struck) the position of his body would have suggested that fact. Instead, his body was arranged just as they wished us to find it, positioned to deflect our attention from the bump on his head, positioned to reinforce the initial impression that he had calmly entered his bath, stretched out his legs, rested his arms and then quietly opened the veins of his wrists. I’m sure you have anticipated my next question . . . ladies . . . and Detective Deaton: who did this thing?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cobham, Surrey
Friday, 3:12 p.m.
“Perhaps it would help if I gave you the short version,” Tom said.
“Please do,” Baker answered.
“Dr. Bennett’s brother was a distinguished California painter whose body was found a little over a week ago. We are certain that he was murdered, but the scene arranged by his murderer was intended to persuade the authorities that he died by his own hand. We believe that he was coerced into preparing a copy of a famous work of art which was then stolen and replaced with the copy. The murderers deflected attention from their actions by bringing forward an individual whose statements associated Mr. Kepler’s appraisal and restoration agency with the project. He is now implicated in the object’s theft, while the actual perpetrator has disappeared.”
“Fascinating. How long has it taken you to deduce all of this?”
“A few days, why?”
“That’s very good.”
“Thank you. You should also know that we are not working from inference and circumstantial evidence, DCI Baker. A friend of mine along with the members of his team was killed and one of his attackers was later found murdered. The murderers are real and they know we are trying to find them.”
“They killed their own chap.”
“Yes.”
“To maintain his silence, of course.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a great deal of silence here, isn’t there?” Baker said.
“Yes, there is,” Tom answered.
“Also a great deal of tidiness and planning.”
“Yes.”
“Might I have that whiskey now, Miss Harrell?” Baker asked.
“Of course,” she said, filling his glass half-full with whiskey and soda and freshening the other three drinks.
“Where did all of this occur?” Baker asked.
“My brother died in California. The theft occurred in France,” Diana said. “Detective Deaton’s associates were killed in France as well.”
“And what did they take? Wait, don’t tell me, I’m game to guess. Not the Da Vinci?”
“No,” Diana answered. “That would have been easier.”
“Easier?” Baker said, raising his eyebrows.
“They stole the Chevaux Ponctués of Pech-Merle.”
“I don’t know that piece,” Baker said.
“Upper paleolithic, probably at least eighteen-thousand years old,” she answered.
“A cave painting?”
“Yes. Actually a set of paintings. On a slab in an exceptionally large cave next to the river Lot, near Cahors. The entire slab was removed.”
“What cheek. But at least that narrows it. The thief either loved art or he loved horses, what?”
They were all staring at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Now you know what we know,” Tom said.
“Quite interesting, but it doesn’t answer my first question: who did this thing?”
Again there was silence as Baker took a sip of his whiskey.
“We had hoped for help from Miss Harrell,” Tom said.
“And can you provide it, Miss Harrell?” Baker asked.
“I don’t know who killed Mr. Kepler or Dr. Bennett’s brother, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said.
“Of course you can’t,” Baker said, “or you would have already done so, what? Tell us whatever you can. Paint in the background, as it were. By the way, this is excellent whiskey. I appreciate your hospitality. Might one . . .”
“Certainly,” Margaret said, pouring more into his glass.
“Cheers,” he said, nodding toward her and taking a deep drink.
“I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Begin anywhere.”
“All right,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Let me tell you about the origin of Tenedos.” She put her glass on a doily on a side table and continued. “Early in the last century the German art market was in chaos. Many aspiring collectors were finding difficulty acquiring impressionist pieces because of their rising cost and since they were often skeptical of the modernist pieces coming from other parts of Europe an opportunity presented itself for a group of enterprising young men. In effect, these young men determined to avoid problems in the art market by changing the nature of that market.
“Many of the collectors, like most members of the German public, were fascinated with antiquities, particularly antiquities concerning Troy. Schliemann had been dead for a generation but there was still great interest in his digs at Hissarlik. He was a most interesting man, of course. He had made an early fortune from trading indigo and still another fortune as a contractor during the Crimean War. He was even in California in the middle of the nineteenth century when it became a state and he vowed to become an American citizen. Did you know that Detective Deaton?”
Tom nodded no.
“Later, with the fruits of his industry, he was able to finance his digs at Hissarlik. He sent to Germany over 250 silver and gold objects which he called ‘the Treasure of Priam.’ These were confiscated by the Russians during the war. As a matter of fact they have recently resurfaced.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Baker said. “Go on Miss Harrell.”
“Schliemann was wrong, of course, about the treasure. Troy had been rebuilt many times and the structure from which the so-called ‘Treasure of Priam’ came was actually pre-Homeric. He was digging too deep; the real Troy—Homer’s Troy that is—was above him. Nevertheless, there was a great interest in Troy and the Trojan War in Germany, but artefacts were very rare. On the other hand, there were a great number of Mycenaean pieces available. Mr. Kepler and a number of his associates formed a consortium . . .”
“Tenedos,” Tom said.
“Yes,” Margaret answered.
“I don’t know why it took me so long to remember it.”
“Remember what?” Diana asked.
“Tenedos is the island on which the Greeks camped before they sacked Troy.”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “The Trojans thought they had left, but they had not. Odysseus and his men were on Tenedos, making their preparations.”
“So,” Tom said, “while other dealers were confused or overconfident the Tenedos group waited and planned and positioned themselves to corner the art market for Homeric antiquities.”
“I’m not sure it was that melodramatic, but, yes, that’s what they did,” Margaret said.
“Go on,” Baker said.
“There’s not much more to tell. After the Nazis came into power Mr. Kepler left Berlin and came to England.”
“He was Jewish?” Tom asked.
“His maternal grandmother was Jewish and that would have been enough for Hitler. The Gestapo broke into his offices, seized his papers, and arrested his personal
assistant. The assistant was held incommunicado for four days. After his release Mr. Kepler decided to leave. The Nazis forced him to turn over a quarter of his assets before they would permit him to depart. He was protected by his notoriety. If he had not been so widely known and respected they would have simply arrested him. His associates stayed on but the business soon died. As Europe was plunged into war the art market evaporated. Pieces were lost, stolen, and confiscated.”
“And what happened to Mr. Kepler’s associates?” Tom asked.
“I have no idea,” Margaret answered. “Why do you ask? You can’t believe that one or more of them could be connected with Mr. Kepler’s death.”
“Someone used the name of his organization,” Tom said.
“Yes, but as I told you, everyone connected with the art world was aware of Tenedos.”
“But only one killed Walter Kepler,” Tom said.
“Why would it possibly be someone who knew him so long ago, someone who had disappeared from his life for decades? When I asked him about the origin of Tenedos he explained it in the most offhand of fashions. It meant nothing to him any longer. He didn’t even mention the names of his associates.”
“Consider it syllogistic,” Baker said.
“I don’t understand,” Margaret answered.
“Do you know of anyone with a motive to kill Walter Kepler?” he asked.
“No, DCI Baker. I told you I didn’t.”
“Well, there you have it,” he answered.
“There you have what?” she said, her patience fraying.
“The majority of murders are committed by individuals who know their victims,” Tom said. “None of Walter Kepler’s current acquaintances would kill him. You just reiterated that fact. Therefore . . .”
“Therefore, one of his past acquaintances killed him,” Baker said, “or, at least, is likely to have done.”
“You’re forgetting about the horses of Pech-Merle,” Margaret said. “The criminal act was an art theft. David Bennett was an artist; Walter Kepler was an appraiser and restorer. They may have been used; they may have fallen in the murderer’s way, but this is not a question of human relationships. It has to do with something else entirely—with money or art or material possessions. This was not a crime of passion.”
INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL Page 17